Ever Slow, Ever Subtle
by RWThunder
Summary: Ed starts living with Roy Mustang after losing Al. During that time, he slowly realizes how the Flame Alchemist truly feels about him. By the time he does, his finds that his own feelings can no longer be ignored. [oneshot] Roy x Ed


_Disclaimer:_ I do not own any part of FMA, sad as it is to say.

_Warnings:_ This is a slash/yaoi fic, meaning boy x boy—don't like, don't read.

**Author's Note on Context**: Al was lost when he revived Ed. Edward was unable to save him and did not end up crossing to the other side of the gate. Like in the anime, the new parliament replaced the Fuhrer and Central is still at war with neighboring tribes. The philosopher's stone, as well as the research pertaining to it, has been destroyed. Ed and Roy are still in the military.

**Author's Note on Perspective**: This story is narrated by Ed, but he may sound a bit more sophisticated than he is in the anime/manga. Assume that people gain eloquence with age and forgive the OOCness of his character.

Ever Slow, Ever Subtle

RWThunder

I never came back from that ghost-like city, not really. For a time I believed that I had truly died there, that Al's transmutation had not yielded what he had hoped for. I was anguished at the thought that his wishes had been in vain, and yet more disturbed by the fact that he had truly succeeded.

For a time I wondered if the military would take me away to a lab, a place like Lab 5, which I would be studied intently as the only human ever to be transmuted perfectly. I was lucky, I suppose, that this event was tied so closely with the Philosopher's Stone, my brother, and that all research on this topic had been abandoned.

Truthfully, my brief death was never even recorded. The only witnesses to this 'miracle' were Rose and Wrath, with whom I have not since associated. Miracle, however, is the wrong word to describe what Al achieved, for my brother achieved nothing positive in doing what he did.

We pledged that we would follow each other, through life, past the gate and back, into death itself. Maybe it was for this reason that Al transmuted me, maybe he had no idea that his life would be taken in place of mine. That, however, cannot be true.

To this day, I have no idea why he did it. My own motivation for doing such a thing would involve our pledge, our promise never to be separated. However, my brother was an excellent alchemist, and he knew that bringing me back would only switch our positions.

There was a time when I hated him for this, for giving me life so that I could life with the pain of his absence, this as opposed to him keeping the role. But then I remember that I would have done the same thing. I did, I tried. It wasn't enough. Maybe it was his doing that blocked my own attempt at human transmutation, perhaps his success prevented me from following, maybe it was the stone, or maybe Al wanted me to live more than he wanted life for himself. The thought sickened me.

When I awoke to find my brother gone, my enemies defeated, and no Philosopher's Stone to search for, I did the only thing I could do in my grief-stricken state, I stayed with the military. This I did because I could no longer return to Resembool.

Before, with Al at my side, I could brave my mother's ghost among those grassy hills. Now, without him, my return would hail the greeting of two phantoms, only I would face the despair of their passing alone. Aside from that, I knew I could never face Winry, our childhood friend again after gaining life in exchange for Al's—if against my will.

She must have hated me for not visiting, not even for the funeral. I regretted it, but at the time I could not bring myself to go. I needed no confirmation of my brother's death and had already bidden his spirit farewell. I ignored the handwritten invitation, as well as the furious response to my silence and lack of attendance.

Things changed when the new parliament was elected. Many believed it was for the better while I, myself, could not pay the price of caring. Because of my good record and impressive transcript, the new government asked little of me, even less than I had been required to do as Roy Mustang's subordinate.

Roy, as it turned out, had had his own adventures while I was busy dying. His battle with the Fuhrer, also known as Pride, had also been ignored for the most part. Bit by bit, details leaked into my knowledge but he was, not surprisingly, unwilling to talk about it much.

The Flame Alchemist's drive to become Fuhrer disappeared in much the same way as my quest for the Stone had, both for the simple reason that the motive no longer existed. Roy had conquered the homunculus, yes, but now there was no such position for him to take, if he had truly wanted it, that is. As for me, the Stone was dead with my brother and that is all that can be said.

Strangely enough, I came to live with Roy a few months after my return. I was in a terrible state. The government refrained from using State Alchemists in the various minor wars—as a sort of courtesy—and I benefited well from this. At the time, I believed that battle may not have been so terrible. Looking back, however, I see that being exposed to so much strife and death would only worsen my gloomy disposition and despairing state of mind.

I had little to do in Central and this was a boon to me, I, who was in no state to work. However, due to the numerous wars, my funding was cut a great deal and I had saved nothing from my time as a utilized State Alchemist a few years before.

It was around this time that I had started visiting Roy. He too had been pushed aside by the government and had a lot of time on his hands. Central was mostly empty save for the other alchemists, the wars required many soldiers but the presence of State Alchemists spoke to strongly of massacre and former political mistakes. Alone and without drive or purpose, Roy and I spent large amounts of time together.

When he heard of my predicament, and also of my resolve to never return home, Roy was quick to offer his home to me. It was not strange, we had never bonded under circumstances leading us to become friends, but Roy and I knew and understood each other well—and from a long while back. I wasn't Hughes, but at the time I was the only thing he had. He was the same for me.

I moved in with him without theatrics, taking the guest room he offered, agreeing to help with various domestic chores, and keeping to myself most of the time. Numb as I was, it was hard to absorb the magnitude of what he had done for me, but over time I came to feel extremely grateful.

Quite literally, I would have starved to death on the streets if Roy hadn't taken me in. At the time, the idea had never occurred to me. No place to go, no money and no shelter somehow hadn't translated in my mind—it must have been the depression.

My depression was of course, centered around Al. My brother was gone, and that meant my life was shattered, demolished, incinerated by the fires of sudden and cruel emptiness. I had no family left, I was alone in life and without the confidant and support pillar that my brother had been for me throughout.

Surprisingly enough, Roy came to supply many of the things that Al had.

I remember standing in the small kitchen, making coffee for us like I did every morning. These small rituals, the routine that we had managed to establish, these things carried us through our enervating lives.

One of the mugs fell through my hands and shattered on the floor. The sound brought Roy rushing into the room. Somehow, the look of concern on his face and the obvious fact that he was worried about me changed something.

He was drying my tears before I realized that I was crying. I had not wept since the days following Al's death. Now, I wept over broken porcelain and a shred of genuine human kindness. Trivial things.

Roy said that it was nothing to be ashamed of. He jokingly suggested, even, that we purchase a similar mug to cheer me up. His jest penetrated my veil of unhappiness deeper than I expected.

I still don't know why I cried. My soul drifted from my body in grief, I was detached and disconnected. Somehow, the shattering porcelain had shocked me back into myself, had jump-started my brain into processing the emotion and, in doing so, processing my sadness as it normally does.

But it was Roy's worry that started the flow of tears, and Roy's kindness that kept them flowing.

He told me afterward that I was quite a sight, crying without sound or motion yet with more passion than was common to see in humans. I remember him guiding me onto his couch, remember him bringing my head down to rest in his lap. At the time, I didn't notice the fingers in my hair.

After that day, I caught myself sniffling many other times, expressing and releasing my pain bit by bit. My crying was of a strange nature, less of a spectacle than it is with most. My tears were peaceful and if not for them, no one could see the emotion I felt. I scarcely sobbed and did most of my weeping during the night, sometimes while asleep. In this fashion, I recognized my plight and began to heal.

There to help me on my road to recovery was Roy: former commanding officer, current shrink. We talked more and more, commonly of shallow things so as not to disturb our fragile security. And yet, even through superficial conversation, we managed to fill in some of the cracks in our strange friendship.

Roy himself was healing well. Gradually, his old arrogant and coy personality came drifting back, but it took time. Even in the best of moments, there was a darkness in his eyes that reflected a life of war, death, regret, and horrible terror that mirrored my own experiences almost perfectly.

While I became comfortable with Roy on many levels however, Roy had advanced beyond and had placed me in a rather high position of importance in his life. I noticed more and more the needless care and affection that he bestowed upon me, attention that I did no reciprocate, at least not at first.

In my removed state, I hardly realized just how much Roy did for me. From holding the door, to sharing his home, to granting me my peace in misery, the general was my savior. We had been on level ground at first, the both of us unable to sink any further into loss and sadness. But Roy was stronger than I.

He improved vastly over the course of a year, even becoming more involved with politics as the wars came to a close. That old familiar attitude returned and I found that I had missed it. I wondered then, as I do now, if it wore on Roy to see me swamped in the pain of my past. It had certainly hurt me when he, too, had been stuck there.

Despite my sluggish progression in the same direction, Roy made no blatant effort to haul me into some shell of my former life. He left me to my natural suffering while, at the same time, comforting me in what small ways that he could.

Eventually, I rose to a level of sulkiness that resembled the final stages of mourning. I was coming back into myself, if slowly, but it was obvious to Roy. He behaved differently around me, less stiff and frozen than I affectionately remembered him being. It was even different to the babying I received while truly grieving. He'd added something more, and continued to add.

One day, as I sat pondering the feel of his skin on my hand, I realized what he had done. I cursed him at that moment for sneaking beneath my rigid exterior, for expressing affection and forcing me to cultivate a similar feeling. For seducing me like he always knew he could.

Roy Mustang had been clever, more clever than even I could have expected of him. If he were any less of a person, I could have disregarded his kindness for fear that it had all been to win me over. This was not so. I could not challenge his sincerity because I knew better. He did care about me, he had worked for almost a year and a half to make that clear.

Ever slow, ever subtle, Roy had made me love him. I don't know why he needed my love, but I was too caught up in the fact that I suddenly, desperately needed his.

He worked often now, coming home around six to have dinner with me. In the hour before his return, I would sit in a chair by the door and wait, just in case he came back early. Pitiful, meaningful, I didn't care. I had come to rely on him, his presence, his kindness. These things had healed me, these things had saved me.

Our interactions, verbally, were no different than they ever had been, but I tried to make my realizations clear. I began to emulate his delicate practice of affection, brushing my hand against his, standing and sitting closer than was necessary, and, at long last, smiling.

The first time I brought myself to widen my lips in mirth, all he could do was stare. I hadn't smiled in over a year. It felt foreign to me, yet distantly familiar. And, of course, I was happy with the results for me mirrored me readily, and I always loved his true smile.

Inevitably, I became frustrated with our platonic relationship, desiring something that expressed the ardor in our hearts. Still weak with sorrow, I feel easily into despair at the thought that my feelings were being repressed. I often wondered bitterly why Roy himself hadn't made a move, him being the one who had truly nurtured our relationship and stirred my sleeping passions.

Then, my frustration lead to a familiar and horribly missed feeling, anger. The person I had used to be was full of wrathful energy, of righteousness, and a destructive sort of enthusiasm and sense of pride. Roy's refusal to move things along motivated me, it gave me a cause.

My goal was simple: I was seventeen, I had nothing to lose, and I was living with someone I was already deeply infatuated with. These things in mind, I would pick up where Roy had left off and seduce him into a more intimate relationship. I was wounded still, but at the point where I wouldn't shun something more than his brief touches and soft smiles. I was coming alive again.

I remember the sound of his coat falling from his arms when I embraced him, hardly our customary greeting for when he came home. Then, those arms wrapped themselves around me and I reveled in this small victory. Perhaps I had been less obvious than I thought. Judging by his surprise, it wasn't hard to believe.

Roy was reliable, that was always the case. When I pushed for something more, he responded without hesitation. The following night, he kissed me soundly, careful not to ask too much of me too soon. A smart and patient man.

Weeks passed, and one night I found myself in his bed, caught up in the most delicious exchange of tender physicality that one can imagine. I realized then that I was truly a blushing virgin compared to him, but Roy didn't seem to care. If anything, it spurred him on, the idea of being my first thrilling him to no end.

I had next to no hesitation when it came to sex. At that point in my life, I had seen and done too much to baulk at the first taste of sexual arousal. It was an unknown feeling, yes, but one I was eager to understand and embrace.

As I contemplated Roy and I becoming lovers, I began to question his reason for it all. My question, why me? Roy himself was beyond what is considered handsome. In light of his own magnificence, I felt that he must have hungered for a creature of similar beauty. I saw myself as nothing of the kind.

I explained this to him as best I could while relaxing in his room one night. His response came in the form of light, purposeful kisses that rained down on my body for what felt like hours before he finally looked up at me.

"You are true beauty, Edward." Is what he told me. I reacted so mightily to this declaration that before long, I found myself half-undressed, tangled in the sheets with him, more than ready to give my virginity away. Somewhere down the line, Roy sensed this feeling and I soon lost the rest of my clothing.

So many times during that night I longed to thank him, and for so many thousands of small, insignificant things. He spent painstaking amounts of time and energy preparing me for what was to come, ever the symbol of gentleness. He gave and gave and asked nothing in return of me, seeking only to increase my comfort and resolve. He practiced the art of lovemaking meticulously, and I was treated like an idol throughout.

Despite this, I could not describe those first few minutes joined with him as enjoyable. To his credit, Roy would not stand for my discomfort, distracting me in anyway he could while pledging over and over to stop if needed. Several times I came close to insisting upon it.

At last, a warm surge of pleasure lit my senses and had me enthusiastically relinquishing my innocence. I could no longer distinguish between his words, hands, his lips…all merged into wave after wave of unrelenting euphoria. It was the happiest night of my life.

Best of all, I found that I could not say how much of my joy was due to the pleasure itself, or if my love for Roy had simply overcome the pain. By the end of our exhausting evening, I didn't much care. I had been touched, worshipped, and healed in every way possible, and I vowed to reciprocate in future.

After that, we could talk about anything. I had made a new life to replace the broken one, had forged new bonds where old ones had been lost, and I had gained in a almost two years more than I had in fifteen.

Peace returned to Central, Roy and I worked leisurely, and because we loathed the thought of hiding it, we were not secretive about our relationship. Sweet acceptance greeted this decision, something neither of us had been expecting. We were a respected couple, two of the most powerful alchemists and noted war heroes—

Flame and Fullmetal, they called us.

We worked well as a team, in harmony, as we were as lovers. In Roy and what we shared, I discovered precious reasons to keep living everyday, to love being alive. When I shared those feelings with him, Roy smiled, saying that he had hoped as much. I knew then that this had been his intent from the beginning, to bring me to life in his own artful, loving way—

Ever slow, ever subtle.


End file.
